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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276739">Detail, Atten-Hut</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Stars in the Soul [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Autobiography, Family, Happy, I'm writing this for myself, Marching Band, Nostalgia, Personal Growth, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Insert, Teamwork</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:43:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>759</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276739</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>All the attention to detail, the struggles and the sacrifices that I had made to get myself to this place would be torn to shreds for my desire to belong somewhere. I could do this on my own. I did not need a home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Stars in the Soul [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738795</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Detail, Atten-Hut</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I realize I am needed.<br/>Home is not always a house.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the earthy scent of freshly cut grass and the heat of the midday sun, glaring down at metal bleachers and undeniably scarlet stadium seats. It was the way the structure curved around the field, and if you looked up for too long, it would seemingly swallow you whole. It was when we stood in some hallway, some darkened tunnel with bright red walls and symbols of this place’s great history, that I realized I was stepping into shoes far too big for my own feet. That I was doomed to face several hundred pairs of eyes and if I failed my only task, they would all notice, point me out for what I had done wrong.</p><p> </p><p>It was when we stepped onto the turf, pristine white yard lines and yellow markings, the unforgettable red ‘<strong>O</strong>’ in the center. It was here, when I stood in line behind my fellow bandmates that I realized I had never experienced something so grand. My whole life I had gone without putting up a show, without drawing any attention to myself. And yet here I was, standing in front of families and extended families, strangers and friends, a blur of colors and faces I no longer recognized from the back of the field. A couple hundred judging eyes when I could barely hold my own in a conversation with friends.</p><p> </p><p>What the hell did I sign up for?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Why would I do this to myself? I’ve never wanted to have this kind of attention. I don’t even matter here, what difference does it make if I leave or stay? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>This was not about how I did well, or how I marched without many mistakes (although I’m glad I did).</p><p>It was about how I forgot everything that had been boiling inside me; the hatred, the hurt, the turmoil. It was how I forgot about the person I was, and for the eight minutes that flew by like seconds, I was the person I <em> wanted </em> to be.</p><p> </p><p>It is cheesy, of course, it is something that people make fun of. It is the stereotype, the ‘band geeks’ and the weirdos. The people that sit in clusters in the cafeteria and do strange things like T-pose with their friends and chant cryptic phrases that they probably found in the deep pits of Reddit. And sure, maybe some of it is like that.</p><p> </p><p>But out on the field, things are different. When the uniform comes on, the atmosphere shifts. When we stand in preparation to march out onto the field, it is not the same. And when we were called to attention, it was the deafening, echoing boom of our voices that served as a strong reminder that we were still strong.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I was a solitary fighter, pushing my way through life on my own because there was no place for me to step into. I rejected help, rejected teamwork, all because I feared that once I grew attached to a role I was not meant to take on, my pride would be ripped from me. All the attention to detail, the struggles and the sacrifices that I had made to get myself to this place would be torn to shreds for my desire to belong somewhere. I could do this on my own. I did not need a home. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>We wear those funny feathered hats because it makes us look the same, it gives the illusion that we are the same height, all one unit. We wear the same uniform, the same shoes, the same outfit down to our very socks because it makes us <em> one </em>. Like a glitch, and one person is simply copied and pasted into the space next to them. From a distance, I realized no one could see my face, and although that would usually serve as a sense of loneliness, it was the most whole I had ever felt.</p><p> </p><p>I was a part of something bigger. I had a role to play, and if I messed up my part, it would mess all of us up.</p><p><em> Us </em>. The band. The family.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>"You may now take the field for OMEA adjudicated performance."</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>My whole life, I had never truly felt like I was a part of something. There, even though no one could have seen my face in the audience, where no one could tell who I am, I knew I belonged. I know somewhere on the field, in the band, there is a hole only I can fill. There is a place for me.</p><p>There is a home.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is about marching band! It is something I am super passionate about, it is one of my biggest reasons to stay alive. The performance referenced in this piece can be watched here: https://youtu.be/Kd0yeVX9RlE (start the video 23 seconds in so you can hear our call to attention)<br/>We're a small band, but it's family nonetheless.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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